A Friend in the Midst of Nature's Harder Edge

Carol King many years ago wrote the soundtrack for the evening: “You've Got a Friend.” Which is good, because as it turned out I needed one.

It was time to close up the chickens for the night -- dusk, or a little after. Perhaps 15 minutes before I had checked out the window and observed them still out and pecking about so I hadn't rushed. I hauled myself into an overcoat, pulled on gloves, grabbed the spotlight to check all the nooks and crannies and headed out.

I heard the commotion, but only in that vague, scratching-at-the-edges-of-consciousness way that is muffled by more preoccupying thoughts. My first real sign that something was amiss was bumping into Sam the rooster up near the deck and heading for the front yard. Glancing past him I saw the girls scurrying all around the coops, at least one on top, full of agitation. And a blur near the fence, sprinting away. As I surveyed the area with suddenly sharpened attentions I noticed first one still mound, and then another. And then another. Three dead hens. Three of my precious favorites I would later realize -- a Lavender Orpington, an Ameraucana and one of the young Bantam Dark Brahmans.

"Did you see the foxes?" a voiced interrupted. So lost in trying to assemble in my mind the reality of what had happened I hadn't noticed my neighbor approach. “We saw two in our front yard moving this way. Then we heard the commotion up here, and all the alpacas were out, looking this way.”

He joined me in the chicken yard as we surveyed the carnage and gathered up the remains. He stood watch as I secured the survivors and commiserated alongside of me. “I'm so sorry,” he said softly. “I know how attached you get to them. Do you need some help carrying them?”

“Oh, I can manage,” I started to respond, willing the sick taste and emotions back down my throat -- and then remembered the truant rooster. “But you could help me find the rooster and get him back inside.”

As it turned out, he hadn't gone far. We spotted him up near the driveway beyond the front porch. But as Art and I eased behind him to encourage him back toward his enclosure it became clear that he had no interest in returning. Rattled and disoriented by his own particular PTSD, the closer we maneuvered him to the chicken yard the more averse he became until the only recourse was to wedge him between our crouching bodies long enough for me to grab him and forcefully carry him inside -- further agitating him...as well as me.

All the while Art stood nearby, sympathizing, opening doors and securing gates and willingly serving as my compatriot in sadness. Together we took one last walk and look around. Finally we snapped the gate closed behind us and paused -- one last fragment of shared silence between us -- and went our separate ways.

Lori and I keep reminding ourselves, whenever such sadnesses occur, that "this is nature”. Though I suspect I will never adjust my soul to the hard truth of it, the reality is that it’s not all pastoral serenity and bucolic bliss out here a few miles remote from the madding crowds; more than quietude and harvest and the daily simplicity of gathering eggs. Here in the rawness of God’s order are pests and diseases in the garden and thieving birds and squirrels in the orchard. There are moles tunneling through the yard, and there are predators above and around the chicken yard attentively watching for and eventually seizing their hungry opportunity. It's beautiful out here, and serene, but it's also torn feathers and blood, rot and thorn.

Thankfully, in the midst of it all, there are also friends who appear when you need one, who stand nearby pretending not to notice the tears, who volunteer to help carry the carcasses and, from their own experiences with this hard and natural order of things, understand.

“When you're down and troubled, and you need a helping hand...” the lyrics spontaneously recalled, “...you've got a friend.”

I'm grateful, because I needed one. In more ways than one.